The White Gundam
by doomweasel
Summary: This is a short story about one pilot's encounter with the infamous White Gundam. It contains pretty much all OCs, just to let you know... Rated PG13 for language, violence, blah blah blah...


This was originally a story I wrote for English. I got an "A" so I guess it's pretty good. Also when my parents read it without my knowing (O_o) they said they liked it... I can't really elaborate on the summary much, except for saying that this was intended for a very non-_otaku_ audience, so the first page was devoted to explaining exactly what the hell "Mobile Suit Gundam" was. You can skip it if you want. Or don't. I don't really care. Just R&R, willya? Oh yeah, the disclaimer...  
  
I didn't create the Gundam universe, the venerable Yoshiyuki Tomino did. Also, Michael Whitman (the name of my OC) was a real-live bona-fide WWII tank ace. But he's dead now. **sniff**  
  
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The Principality of Zeon deified {Note: that _is_ a real word; it means "idolized"} it as the Glorious Battle for Independence. The Earth Federation dismissed it as an uprising. History would later call it the One Year War. But those who saw it face-to-face, who experienced it in all its cruelty and brutality, who saw it devour their friends and families, called it what it really was: The War.  
  
Michael Whitman, a young soldier no older than twenty-five, had no idea what The War was really about. He understoo that Zeon, first led by Zeon Zum Deikun and later, after his assassination, by the aristocratic Zabi family, desired the space colony Side Three's independence from Earth and believed it to be a just and right cause. He also knew that the Zabi family believed that Spacenoids (self-explanitory: humans living in space) were mentally and morally superior to Earthnoids, but he was not aware of The War's -- that snarling, ravaging beast that consumed all who came near -- real desires: blood, fear, destruction, and sacrifice.  
  
At first Whitman was content to pilot armored supply vehicles that transported spare parts -- he was not at all interested in getting himself killed -- even with the immense popularity of Zeon's unique weapon, the Mobile Suit. The Mobile Suits (MS) were Zeon's greatest weapon, giant humanoid machines that not only physically devastated the Earth Federation's forces, but also attacked psychologically by striking fear in the hearts and souls of all who opposed them. With its MS, the Principality seemed unstoppable.  
  
At least, they were until the fateful day when, having heard rumors of military activity on the otherwise neutral colony, two MS-06 Zaku II's infiltrated Side Seven. Two of the Federation prototypes hidden there, the RX-75 and the RX-77, were damaged almost beyond repair. But, in a cruel twist of fate, an engineer's son -- a nobody -- somehow wound up in the cockpit of the third, undamaged prototype, the RX-78-2... the White Mobile Suit... the Gundam. Without any previous battle experience whatsoever, the kid was able to destroy the two invading Zakus and "saved" Side Seven. The Earth Federation, always on the lookout for promising pilots, quickly snapped him up and made him the only official pilot of the Gundam. The rest, as they say, was history. Soon, the Gundam was on everyone's lips. _ Did you hear? The Gundam took out ten Zakus in one battle! The Gundam destroyed an entire warship in five seconds!_ The Gundam, the Gundam, the Gundam... it was enough to make Whitman vomit.  
  
Because of this it wasn't a surprise, really, when one morning Whitman was ordered before the Lieutenant in charge of his detachment. Over the past month one person after another had been transferred to the Space Corps to replace dead or injured MS pilots. He stood at attention, waiting for the inevitable, as Lieutenant Odell paced around the room irritably.  
  
Finally, the officer spoke. "Do you know why you're here, Whitman?"  
  
"I have a good idea, sir."  
  
Lieutenant Odell gazed out the window, speaking not so much to Whitman as to himself. "I've lost over half my men in less than for weeks. All were sent to the Space Corps, only to get killed. And it's that damnable Gundam that's responsible." He sighed heavily. "You've been a good soldier, Whitman. I hate to see you go, more than most. But... orders are orders."  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
The Lieutenant finally looked directly at the young soldier, who unblinkingly returned the gaze with steely gray eyes. No matter how he tried, Odell could not decipher the steady look of Whitman's. He finally broke the trance, returning to the papers stacked on his desk. "Pack your things. The shuttle leaves at oh-six-hundred hours on Thursday. I'll give you two days' leave so you can see your family. Dismissed."  
  
Whitman saluted respectfully to the Lieutenant, turned, and walked out into the hallway. He knew he should be more upset about the transfer; most of his comrades had acted as though they were being sent to a death camp. But, for some reason, Whitman saw it no differently than if he were sent to pilot some other transport vehicle -- if anything, this was an improvement since he'd be able to fight back if attacked. A smile flickered across Whitman's face. _Always looking on the bright side of things, Mike. You'll be hard-pressed to be optimistic about this._  
  
Whitman was halfway across the expansive courtyard in front of the officers' quarters when a shout from behind caused him to turn. A slender woman four or five years older than Whitman came jogging up, looking annoyed. The grease and motor oil stains on her hands and uniform coupled with the pungent smell of diesel gasoline told Whitman that she'd been working on one of the trucks used for ferrying supplies from one side of the colony to the other. _We've been using diesel fuel for over two hundred years and we still can't make it smell better?_ he thought longingly. "Hey Liz, what's with this entrancing fragrance?"  
  
The woman, Elizabeth Pierce, ignored his less-than-enthusiastic reaction to her odor. They'd known each other since they were in diapers, and she was used to his sarcastic tongue. "And where have _you_ been? You were supposed to help me fix that flatbed that's been having trouble taking corners."  
  
"Sorry Liz. The Lieutenant called me up to see him."  
  
Pierce's face fell; she knew the only reason he would be summoned. "Oh Mike... When?"  
  
"Oh-six-hundred hours, Thursday."  
  
Pierce bit her lip and looked away. Suddenly, she threw her arms around Whitman, catching him off-guard and causing him to stumble slightly. "Jeez, Liz," he protested, "it's no different than being stationed at another transport unit."  
  
"Yes it is! You get sent to the Space Corps and you die. Here, you're safe. They don't destroy transport ships like they do the MS."  
  
"Liz, you know that's not true. The casualty rate for transport units is only slightly lower than MS squadrons."  
  
"But the Gundam -- "  
  
"Dammit, the Gundam's not invincible! The pilot's just a kid!"  
  
"That's what scares me, Mike," Pierce countered, giving Whitman a hard look. "Haven't you been paying attention? They say the Gundam pilot is one of those Newtypes. That's why he's so fast; everyone knows Newtypes have super-fast reflexes. And as he gets older, he'll only get better."  
  
Whitman sighed, running his hands through his brown hair. He wasn't going to win this argument easily. In fact, her sincere words were attacking his confidence and had now nearly destroyed it. He had one last card to play. "Liz, how long have we known each other? For over twenty years! That's longer than that snot-nosed brat of a pilot's been alive. Doesn't that mean anything to you? Look, I promise to keep in touch with you, okay? I'll write more often to you than my parents if it'll make you happy."  
  
Despite herself, Pierce had to smile. "That won't be necessary. I know you'll be hearing this a lot, but... just be careful, okay?"  
  
Whitman smiled back. "Okay." They embraced once more before he left to back what meager possessions he had. As he slung his military-issue duffel bag over his shoulder, Whitman hoped he had sounded a lot more confident than he'd felt.  
  
^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ ^_^  
  
Inside the cramped cockpit of a Zaku II, Whitman reviewed the final pre-launch checklists from memory. He flicked switches, pressed buttons, and red gauges with practiced easewhile relaying information via his COM system to ground control. "Thrusters at full. Hydraulic systems one, two, and three are green. Generator running at normal. Optical sensor... on." As he spoke, the large vid-screen in front of him flickered to life, showing a view of the launcing bay on the warship he'd been assigned to, the _Achilles_. "Machine gun loaded, safety on. Heat 'hawk secured."  
  
"Roger, _Achilles_ confirms all systems 'go.'" Is your seat belt on?"  
  
Whitman chuckled, the sound amplified in the enclosed space of his crash helmet. Nevertheless, he double-checked the safety harness that held him in his seat. "Delta One is ready for launch."  
  
"Two copies. All systems in the green," a new voice cut in. "Ready to party?"  
  
"You know it, Alex," Whitman replied, smiling. Alex Gunter had quickly become Whitman's close friend once he had been transferred to the Space Corps. He was the polar opposite of Whitman in both physical appearance and personality. Blonde-haired and blue-eyed, Gunter barely cleared five feet in height. He compensated for this grandly -- with an exuberant personality and frat-boy attitude, Gunter made a strong impression on anyone, whether for better or for worse.  
  
"_Achilles_ here. Delta Unit clear for launch."  
  
"Delta One copies."  
  
"Two copies."  
  
To someone watching an MS launch, it is awe-inspiring to say the least. The MS-06 Zaku II is 64 feet tall and dark green, with one glowing, red optical sensor set on a sliding track in the helmet-like "head." Vulnerable hydraulic systems and electrical wiring is incased in armor made of super-hard steel alloy, making the Zaku resemble some unearthly giant knight. When it moves, the Zaku doesn't move smoothly as a human; instead, there is an ever-so-slight hesitation with each step, giving the Zaku the gait reminiscent of a huge insect. With a 120-millimeter caliber machine gun clasped within its steel-clad hand, the Zaku II is one of the most fearsome sights one can ever see.  
  
Whitman grasped the two joysticks located near his knees in his gloved hands and throttled forward. He was instantly rewarded by a lumbering step, then another. Slowly, Whitman maneuvered his Zaku down the narrow launch corridor with Gunter right behind in his own Zaku. Suddenly a huge set of metal doors loomed in front of Whitman, where he stopped and waited patiently.  
  
"Delta Unit requesting opening of airlock B," he transmitted.  
  
"Roger. Opening airlock B." There was a low hum, followed by loud clanks as the doors unlocked. FUnally, the airlock doors began to slide open with thunderous groans and creaks, revealing the black void of space beyond. Above Whitman loomed the huge marble sphere of Earth. Clouds swirled and writhed above him, partially obscuring the large brown continent of Asia. Reminding himself not to get distracted by the view, Whitman nudged forward on the throttle and his Zaku jumped into the emptiness.  
  
Whitman maneuvered through space with the ease acquired only through life in low or zero-gravity. He used the jet boosters located on the back only occasionally to change direction; in space, once you start you don't stop. "Delta Unit proceeding to checkpoint one," Whitman radioed the warship. This was a routine patrol mission of the space around the command ship required by all units at some time or another. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the patrol was uneventful and boring. Whitman liked to think of it as a nice time to think and enjoy the scenery. After all, noting like a good space walk can put your life back in perspective.  
  
"Sooooo... Mike. Who's the girl you're always writing?" Gunter asked over the private COM system, forcing Whitman's mind to come crashing back to reality.  
  
"Who, Liz? She's my friend. We've known each other since I was two and she was about six."  
  
"You're into older women, huh?" Gunter snickered conspiritorially.  
  
The implied notion shocked Whitman to the core. "We're not like that! We're just friends, _okay?!_ If you say anything like that again..."  
  
"Okay, okay, jeez," Gunter demurred. "Don't go postal on me, willya?" There was an uncomfortable silence. "It's just that... you make it sound like you wish it _were_ like that."  
  
"Just _shut up_," Whitman snarled angrily. He immediately forced his thoughts on the task at hand. But, inexorably, his train of thought wound its way back to Gunter's last remark. He'd never really thought about Pierce and him being more than close friends, but the way she laughed when he made some droll remark was so appealing. Her smile was so beutiful, her movements graceful...  
  
"Delta unit, this is _Achilles_. We are picking up multiply intermittent heat sources, vector three-oh-seven-two-Golf. Please confirm."  
  
Whitman activated his infrared scanner and tried to make out anything through the interference. Mobile Suits depended on infrared for early detection of enemies despite its inferiority to radar because the subatomic Minovsky particles that permeated the universe iterfered with all sorts of scanners -- radar most of all. Warships took advantage of this phenomenon with devices that scattered large amounts of Minovsky particles in the surrounding area, effectively neutralizing enemy scanners. It was a double-edged sword, however, for the warships' own scanners were also severely handicapped. "Negative, _Achilles_. Delta One has nothing on infrared. We're just about as blind as you guys."  
  
"I have nothing. Dumb particles screwin' with my scanners," Gunter complained.  
  
"Try visual confirmation. Something is definitely coming," _Achilles_ insisted. "At least ten bogeys, probably more."  
  
Reluctantly, Whitman gently tapped on the booster control until his Zaku II had pivoted 90 degrees and jetted forward. Earth was below him now, but it made no difference which way was up and which was was down in space. As he floated silently towards the designated coordinates, Whitman switched between scanning the space ahead of him and checking the small infrared screen, which virtually snapped, crackled, and popped with interference. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a flash of white amid the inky blackness. Swieveling around, he magnified the image on his vid-screen. The flas of white became a gray RX-79 GM, the Earth Federation's new mass-production MS. Soon anoter, and then another GM slid into view. Whitman's throat tightened. There were at least a dozen of them!  
  
"_Achilles_, this is Delta One!" Whitman shouted. "I have a tally-ho on the bogeys: twelve -- no, fourteen -- GMs! Repeat, there are one-four RX-seventy-nine GM-model Federation Mobile Suits!"  
  
"Jesus," Gunter gasped. Whitman couldn't have stated it better.  
  
"Delta Unit, this is _Achilles_." The voice over the COM system sounded panicked. "We are launching reinforcements. They will arrive shortly. Meanwhile, hold your position and report further developments."  
  
"Roger," Whitman replied through gritted teeth. How could he just sit there and wait? With each passing second the GMs were _that_ much closer to the _Achilles_. Still, Whitman would have the same chance as an ice cube in hell if he engaged the bogeys right then.  
  
Through the COM system, Whitman heard Gutner rumble impatiently. Finally he said, "Nuts to this! Deltat Two, engaging!" and with a roar of his boosters his Zaku shot towards the incoming GMs.  
  
"No Alex, _wait!_" Whitman called after him, but Gunter didn't respond. Uttering a stream of curses, he clicked off the safety on his Zaku's machine gun and slammed on the boosters. With a dull roar his Zaku barreled towards the nearest GM, his weapon held at the ready. The distance between them bled away. Three thousand meters... two thousand eight hundred... two thousand six hundred... why weren't the Feds reacting? There was no way they hadn't seen Whitman and Gunter yet...  
  
Pushing the thought out of his mind, Whitman pulled the trigger as soon as the GM was in range. But no sooner had he fired than the GM strafed to the right and fired its own machine gun. Speeding at well over a hundred miles an hour, Whitman was just barely able to dodge the rounds in his aged MS. Once he'd reaced a safe distance, he made a quick 180-degree turn and faced the enemy once again. Approaching a bit more cautiously this time, Whitman decided to try a new technique he'd learned. Reaching for the cracker grenades clipped to the Zaku's waist, he grabbed a handful and threw the small spheres as hard as he could. After a preset passage of time, the grenades automatically detonated, sending knives of shrapnel flying in every direction.  
  
As soon as the cracker grenades detonated, Whitman aimed his machine gun above the explosion. It is reflexive for an MS pilot to fly straight up when dodging because it requires no maneuvering; Whitman took advantage of this and fired, raking downward and across. The target GM took both a glancing blow from the shrapnel and the 120-mm rounds full on -- in seconds the giant weapon was torn into scrap metal. A harsh warning buzzer sreamed in Whitman's helmet. Before he could think, Whitman spun around and fired point-blank at the GM that had been attempting to hit his relatively unarmored back. A stray round hit the huge reactor, and the resulting explosion sent Whitman's Zaku spinning.  
  
"Dammit Alex, what the hell were you thinking?!" Whitman screamed, engaging the next GM.  
  
"I'm never one to pass up a good fight," Gunter replied grimly. He'd already destroyed three targets. "Mike! Nine 'o' clock high!" Whitman fired upwards, blowing both legs off a battered GM. It was still a threat, however, so he continued to fire until both arms were gone as well. The pilot was most likely still alive; the _Achilles_ could capture him later.  
  
_This isn't so hard,_ Whitman thought to himself as he threw another handful of cracker grenades. Most of the Federation pilots acted like rookies, almost as if this was their first time in an MS. In just a few minutes half the GMs were destroyed and the reinforcements from the _Achilles_ were just arriving.  
  
"It looks like you guys did most of the dirty work for us," the platoon leader radioed as he approached.  
  
"Well, if you hadn't taken so long to get your asses over here, we would have left some more for you," Gunter replied gleefully.  
  
"You do know you're _this_ close to being court-marshaled for acting against orders? The General's mad enough to chew on iron and spit out bullets."  
  
"Screw him. We saved his ass and he --" WHA-BOOOM!!! The platoon leader's Zaku exploded in a flashy display of light. Before the rest even had time to react, a snow-white blure rocketed through and the other two Zakus detonated as well. It was just Whitman and Gunter again.  
  
"What the --?" Whitman cried, dodging the debris. He tried to follow the streak of white, but it zoomed out of range of his gun. Just when Whitman was convinced the strange object was some sort of alien craft or possessed comet, it skidded to a halt and allowed Whitman to see its true identity.  
  
His heart almost stopped. Before him stood an MS whose bold primary colors on the chest offset the pure white that predominated over its body. In one hand it held a state-of-the-art beam rifle, the likes of which the Principality had yet to master. In the other hand it held a glowing crimson blade -- a beam saber -- made of supercharged Minovsky particles, able to cut through the thickest MS armor like a hot knife through butter. "Oh... no..." It was the White Gundam.  
  
Time seemed to slow down as Whitman watched the Gundam charge at Gunter's Zaku, beam saber held low at its side. Near panic, Gunter fired wildly at the shining MS. _No way the Gundam could dodge a direct shot like that_, Whitman prayed, _no way._ The Gundam proved otherwise, zigzagging around the rounds as though they were standing still. Before Whitman could call out a warning, the Gundam slashed upwards with one broad stroke. For a brief moment Whitman could see that Gunter's Zaku had been sliced neatly in two, like a paper doll. Then the reactor exploded, and millions of dollars of military hardware and one human life were nothing more than small bits of debris.  
  
_"NOOOO!"_ Whitman screamed. His mind couldn't comprehend the sheer speed and ferocity of the Gundam -- in less than twenty seconds it had destroyed four Zakus... including Gunter. The Gundam turned towards Whitman, its twin yellow optical sensors glowing from the mouthless, expressionless face like the angry eyes of an ancient vengeful god of the old legends. It was impossible for Whitman to defeat the Gundam in one-on-one combat. Impossible. But he wasn't going down without a fight.  
  
Blinking back tears, jaw clenching and unclenching, Whitman reached for his Zaku's heat 'hawk (superheated tomahawk). He held it in front of him and watched as the super-conductive metal blade began to glow red, then white-hot. Vaguely, Whitman heard the COM operator on the _Achilles_ ordering him to retreat...retreat... _Like hell,_ Whitman thought grimly, and he switched off the COM unit.  
  
Silence. He held the heat 'hawk in the Zaku's metallic hands, extensions of his own flesh-and-blood body. The gundam seemed to study Whitman for a moment, as if surprised that such an outdated MS would dare to fight back. Finally it tossed its beam rifle aside to better the grip on its beam saber, letting the rifle drift into space. Then it attacked.  
  
His veins pumping pure adrenaline, Whitman parried once, twice, sparks flying even in the airless void of space, and the Gundam was past him. He shot after it, screaming curses at the Gundam, its pilot, the ground crew, the Earth Federation, the Zabi family, God, plus everyone and everything else he could think of. Suddenly the Gundam performed a snap-turn, sweeping upwards with the pink blade. Whitman blocked the blow, following through with his own attack. The two battling behemoths clashed again and again, faster and faster, the blades crackling and sparking with violent energy.  
  
At length the Gundam finally found an opening. Moving faster than Whitman's eyes could follow, it sliced off the arm holding his heat 'hawk and gave his Zaku a mighty kick square in the torso. Whitman tumbled helplessly out of control, the severed arm of his Zaku trailing hydraulic fluid that so closely resembled blood. The Gundam didn't pursue him; instead, it watched him float away with impassive eyes, calculating the threat, weighing the options, deciding his fate.  
  
It seemed an eternity before Whitman finally regained control of his injured Zaku. His face was drenched in sweat despite his suits built-in AC unit, and his arms trembled with the sheer exhaustion of piloting the MS. A lancing pain burned in his side whenever he breathed -- he'd broken some ribs, the most common MS pilot injury. Whitman's breath caught in his throat and he heaved a huge, wet cough; glancing down, he saw droplets of bright red blood splattered on the inside of his helmet. He quickly checked his gauges... The generator was damaged, practically useless. The hydraulics were shot, leaking fluid like nobody's business. The machine gun was empty, and Whiman couldn't reload with only one arm. Looking up at his cracked vid-screen, Whitman watched through the static as the Gundam reached behind its back and drew _another_ beam saber so it wielded one in each hand.  
  
Whitman was doomed. He was severely injured, his Zaku crippled and weaponless... he closed his eyes, swallowed, coughed up more blood, and opened his eyes once again. "Well Gundam," he whispered wistfully, his voice hoarse, "perhaps you are invincible after all." Calmly he watched as the Gundam rushed towards him, raised its beam sabers and slashed downwards...  
  
Time stopped, and for a brief instant Whitman saw the true face of the War, saw how it had consumed millions before and millions after him. He saw how the War had grown beyond the control of those who'd started it and developed its own consciousness, how it wouldn't stop until its thisrt for blood was quenched. He saw the face of each and every person the War had touched, and he realized taht he was looking at all humankind. And he saw the true face of the Gundam; it was no longer "it," for Whitman saw that the pilot ws just a kid -- scared and confused like him, just trying to survive the wrath of the War...  
  
Just trying to survive...  
  
He saw all this, and then the Gundam's beam sabers cut through his Zaku's armor, and Michael Whitman saw no more.  
  
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Yup, he died. **angst** I had changed the ending so that Whitman lived, but my friends made me change it back. You sick bastards! When will your thirst for blood be quenched?! **angst angst angst**  
  
God, I can't take it anymore!! Review already, reveiw!! **angst angst angst angst angst** 


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